When I was little, I was terrified of the dark. Every shadow felt like a hidden spot for monsters. In that way, fear was a universal language. Every child can say it. And the monster, I remember most vividly, wasn't under my bed. It was a mask from my hometown.

A stark, formidable face from the nation tradition, known as Nō. As I grew older, curiosity slowly replaced fear. Why does it have to look so fierce? I once asked an elder. He smiled and said.

My child, its fierceness is not meant to scare us, but to shield us. The vibrant red symbolizes courage. The deep black signifies justice. This one is Zhong Kui, the ghost haunting hero.

That one is the Dragon King. bringing rain for the cross. Their duty is to drive away misfortune, illness, and everything evil. During the festival when the drums begin the dancer wearing the mask is no longer just a person He becomes a vessel a bridge between the earthly and the divine carrying the collective hopes of the entire village for a safe and healthy year This journey made me see more of opera as more than a ritual.

It's a living thread to our ancestors. Their struggles, their resilience, their deepest wishes for peace. Today, we may not believe a mask can literally drive away plague. But that fundamental human desire for safety, for belongings, that's timeless. These masks are like mirrors that reflect the soul. They don't just show us gods and heroes. They reflect our own shared hopes and remind us of who we are and where we come from.

The mask hasn't changed, but I have. Now I see that under the carved wood and paint, there is no monster. There is a guardian, a story, and a timeless bridge to the heart of my culture. you